


Mawage: Wot Bwings Us Togeder

by perfectpro



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: F/M, Las Vegas Wedding, Marriage, Marriage Proposal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-01
Updated: 2015-09-01
Packaged: 2018-04-18 10:42:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,730
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4703069
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/perfectpro/pseuds/perfectpro
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles and Lydia have fallen victim to the most classic couple plot device since ‘fake married for spy reasons’: waking up married in Vegas. Princess Bride References abound.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mawage: Wot Bwings Us Togeder

**Author's Note:**

  * For [LaughingSenselessly](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LaughingSenselessly/gifts).



> This is gifted to [Jade](http://archiveofourown.org/users/LaughingSenselessly/pseuds/LaughingSenselessly) because the latest chapter of her phenomenal [witched](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4273674/chapters/9678324) gave me the inspiration I needed to figure out how to finish this! You guys should go check it out, it's a seriously great WIP about Stiles and Lydia switching universes with versions of themselves that are engaged. I highly recommend it!
> 
> Because who doesn't need a 'married in Vegas' AU?

Stretching himself awake, Stiles adjusts to the sunlight being filtered into the hotel room from the blinds. He knew they’d looked thin, but he can think about that later. When he isn’t so hung over and his head isn’t throbbing like it’d been involved in a collision with a semi-truck, for instance. That will probably be a better time for higher brain functioning.

As it is, he stares at the clock on the nightstand and groans when he sees the time. 9:30. He’d been planning on sleeping in until ten at the least, but that idea is clearly no longer an option considering he’s wide awake already. Feeling terrible, yes, and hungover beyond belief, but awake nonetheless.

“Stop moving,” his girlfriend mumbles from beside him, throwing a hand in his general direction and landing on his shoulder. She attempts to press him back into the mattress, as though that will get him to go back to sleep.

Stiles smirks and leans over to nudge her, always happy to see her fiery strands of hair spread out on the pillow beside him. “Wakey, wakey, eggs and bakey,” he teases Lydia, trying not to get his hangover breath on her. He really needs to brush his teeth, it feels like something has died on his tongue.

“Eggs and bacon, you are mistaken,” she grunts back, drawing her other hand out of the sheets to flip him off.

Watching her with some humor, he looks over at her hand and froze. Then, very carefully and deliberately, he blinks twice. Slowly. Because his vision has to be lying, that can’t be. 

Lydia can’t be wearing a ring on the fourth finger of her… Is that her left hand? Ignoring the stabbing pain of his headache, he tries to orient himself to figure out which of her hands it is.

Yeah, that is her left hand. That is definitely a ring on the forth finger of her left hand. A ring that had not been there last night.

Oh, God. She’s going to kill him. She’s going to stab him and cackle as he perishes beneath her, because of course she will. How can she not? They’ve fallen victim to the most classic couple plot device since ‘fake married for spy reasons’: waking up married in Vegas.

Unsure of how to approach the topic, Stiles figures he needed to tell her before she figures it out for herself. But first, he looks down at his own left hand, where an identical ring is resting. A simple silver band that has indentions along each edge, it’s actually quite nice. He doesn’t have a good enough eye to tell if the silver is real or not, but he supposes that the material of the ring doesn’t matter so much as the meaning.

“Um, babe, I think we did something last night,” he starts, unsure of how to state it.

She doesn’t even bother to open her eyes. “We’re naked in our hotel bed, Stiles. I know we had sex.”

“No, I think it was more than sex.”

“Do you mean anal? Because I would know if we did anal, believe me.”

Choosing to ignore that, he tries a slightly different approach. A little more direct will probably work better. “Just… Look at your hand.” Maybe she won’t be mad at him if she sees that she’d clearly been involved in this, too.

Again, Lydia keeps her eyes squeezed shut as she tries to resist actually waking up. “We’ve been over this. My hands are ashy before I put lotion on them. Can I go back to sleep yet?”

If he lets her go back to sleep, she’ll be even more angry at him than she’s already going to be. “No, Lyds, you really have to wake up. Wake up and look at your hands, please.”

Her green eyes slide open slowly, looking at him as if to say that she’s merely humoring him. She slides her hands over to her face and glances down at them, carefree. Then she freezes, eyes widening. 

“What the fuck did we do last night?”

Which, okay, he probably should have been expecting that. 

“Well, when a boy and a girl love each other very much…”

Judging by the look on her face, she isn’t amused. “Please, God, do not finish that sentence.”

Pausing and sitting up properly in the bed, Stiles drags a hand over his face. His right hand, because his left hand is currently being weighed down by the silver ring he’d apparently acquired last night and he isn’t sure he’s up to facing that reality quite yet. “We can get divorced?” They definitely consummated the marriage, so an annulment probably isn’t an option, but he’s not well versed on Nevada’s requirements for that.

Her eyes are piercing his instantly, and even though Lydia usually likes to go through all options before coming to a conclusion, she instantly upset by what he’s said. “I know you think you’re being helpful right now, but please. Please don’t say the D word. Not yet, at least.”

That’s fairly well-merited, considering how Lydia’s most vivid memories of her parents revolve around the three or four years before their divorce, when arguing was a sport and neither was willing to lose. They can’t stand each other, and Stiles knows that he shouldn’t have mentioned it, in all honesty. But it’s an option, if they need it. Some well-placed humor should be able to lighten the mood, and even though he’s apprehensive about joking it seems like the quickest way to get her feeling better. “Dick? Because you seem to like that D word an awful lot.”

Raising her hands and covering her eyes, Lydia lets a small smile out and manages to say, “Shut up, you idiot,” before dissolving into laughter. “What are we going to do?” Running through options, it’s clear that they need to find the wedding license among the wreckage of the hotel room and then track down the chapel they’d gone to.

“We could have sex?” he says, vaguely wondering if the ‘old married sex’ only counts if you remember the wedding. And then he realizes the worst thing about this whole situation: they had proposal sex and first time married sex and he can’t remember it.

-x-

Allison groans and curls closer to Scott, squeezing her eyes shut in an attempt to stay asleep for a little longer. They agreed to meet everyone for lunch at noon, everyone assuming that trying to wake up before then would only be an exercise in futility. Considering how much they drank last night, she’s just counting herself lucky that her head doesn’t feel like the aftermath of an explosion. Or, correction, considering how much she remembers them drinking last night.

It’s not like a huge chunk of memory is missing, because she knows they went to the casino and watched Cora win round after round of blackjack, Stiles and Scott entranced with the slot machines. She, Lydia, and Isaac had joined in a poker game, and Malia had wandered off to hit on one of the waiters that served cocktails. Then, they’d gone dancing and gotten even more drunk, and while Allison remembers leaving the club in a celebratory mood, she doesn’t know where they went from there.

Probably another club, she reasons with herself, pulling the blankets tighter around her and squinting through her lashes to look at Scott. He’s half smiling, his cheek squished into the pillow causing one the corners of his mouth life. One arm is thrown across her stomach, his hand a steady, reassuring weight on her hip.

“Morning,” she finally whispers, pressing her lips carefully to his temple.

She almost feels guilty about waking him up, because Scott while asleep is almost as cute as Scott while awake. Then again, she’s partial to both.

“How are you even awake?” he grumbles, pulling her closer and setting his face in the juncture between her neck and shoulder. “I’m pretty sure there’s a rule about not waking hung over people up. Somewhere.”

Kissing the top of his head, she says, “Probably in the Bible or something. Come on, get up.”

Scott does wake up, though he pouts and whines while he does so. Not that she expected anything less. And when he finally is awake, he just rolls over on top of her and stays there. “You’re cozy,” he says, voice scratchy.

Nuzzling her chin into his shoulder, she smiles against his skin. “Love you,” she whispers, wondering when she got so sappy that, even hung over and with morning breath so thick it feels like her tongue is covered in fur, saying that to Scott first thing in the morning is more important than anything else. 

“Love you,” he returns, turning his face to press their lips together in a closed-mouth kiss that he holds for a few seconds before actually standing up.

And then they have to start the day, which means brushing her teeth and hair while Scott stares at himself in a mirror for a minute before deciding that he does not, in fact, need to shave. And then she stares him down from behind her toothbrush until he relents, reaching for the razor with a pout. All while they spend the time complaining about being hung over, and Scott saves the day by producing two bottles of Gatorade from his bag.

“Lifesaver,” Allison purrs, accepting the bottle and gulping down the contents hastily before spitting it quickly into the sink. She’d forgotten about how Gatorade tasted in a minty fresh mouth.

“No, this is the real life saver,” Scott responds, shoving his sleeve up and showcasing the words scrawled on his arm in black marker, ‘DO NOT LET GET MARRIED IN VEGAS.’ And then he laughs, tilting his back.

Choking, she pulls away from the Gatorade and stares at him in awe before joining him, laughing so hard that her abs start to hurt. “Tell me that you put that on last night before starting to drink,” she pleads, sitting on the bed and falling back to look at the ceiling.

He nods, giggling as he grabs a bar of soap and begins to wash the words off. “I did it because I figured, hey, we’re already engaged, and I didn’t want someone to say to us last night ‘wow you guys should go ahead and get married’ here. Who gets married in Vegas?” he asks, scrubbing vigorously until the writing begins to fade.

Three more months, she tells herself. Three more months until they’ll be married and everything will be perfect. Well, even more so than it already is. Thoughtfully, Allison rolls on her side and watches him with a smirk. “Ten bucks says someone in pack got married last night. Come on, we had a night worthy of The Hangover judging by how I can’t remember any of it. Someone got married, and you know it.”

The look that he shoots her is scandalized. “No one in the pack would get married in Vegas. They’re my pack, they’re better than that.”

“They had alcohol that was infused with wolfs bane alcohol last night. I’m thinking they’re not quite as pristine as you think that they are,” she teases him, loving how he only rolls his eyes.

-x-

They obviously have to tell Scott and Allison, if only because telling them quickly speeds up the process from full on freaking out over oh-shit-I-got-married-in-Vegas to laughing over I-got-married-in-Vegas-how-funny. And Stiles figures that they need to be able to laugh about it, if only because that seems like the only alternative to having a full on, knock down, drag out fight over who’s idea it was when clearly neither of them can remember.

Which is how he finds himself standing outside the door of Scott’s and Allison’s hotel room, hoping that they’re already awake. Nevertheless, he raises the hand that isn’t adorned with his new wedding band and knocks loudly enough that it should be able to wake them up.

The door opens slowly a moment later, Allison peeking out and blinking wearily at him. “What’s up?”

There’s not going to be an easy way to say that, but Stiles tries the same way that he broke the news to Lydia. “Lydia and I woke up this morning, and we did something last night.”

Scott’s face pokes up from behind Allison’s, and she opens the door a little wider. Glaring wearily at his friend, Scott says, “It’s called sex. You and Lydia are quite familiar with the concept, judging from the noises I heard coming from your bedroom when we shared that apartment in college.”

Rude. “No, that’s not what I meant. It was more than sex,” Stiles tries, hoping they’ll get the hint.

“Do you mean anal?” Allison asks, confusion clouding her face.

Scott blanches in revulsion. “Dude, you don’t need to tell me these things. I know we tell each other everything, but coming to my room the morning after is a little much.” He looks constipated at the thought.

Haha. Constipated at the thought of anal sex. Stiles is such a child, really. He’s lucky that Lydia puts up with him, considering that his sense of humor mostly consists of weak puns and dick jokes.

What is with everyone thinking that ‘more than sex’ means anal? Anal is a type of sex, Stiles thinks before trying to concentrate on how to get them to understand what he’s getting at. “No, we didn’t do anal!” he shouts, wincing when a woman walking down the hall whips around to face him in surprise.

In unison, Scott and Allison adopt a disbelieving expression, although whether that’s about the anal or the woman who overheard him, he doesn’t know. Wait – isn’t doing stuff simultaneously his and Scott’s thing? Allison can’t take that from them – can she? They are engaged. Stiles supposes that it doesn’t matter right now, there are more important matters to attend to. Like the fact that he apparently got married and can’t remember the wedding.

Holding his left hand up, he waves each of his fingers and says, “Lydia and I got married last night.”

There is a pause that stretches between them and goes on for ages until Allison bursts out laughing and Scott gives a swift curse. “I knew it, I totally knew it. I knew you were dumb enough to do it,” Allison crows.

“You can get through this, you and Lydia are practically made for each other,” Scott says, trying to make sure that his voice overpowers that of his fiancé’s.

His best friend being supportive and believing in the strength of his relationship is nice, but Stiles doesn’t really give a shit about that now. “We got married. In Vegas. And now I have a wedding ring that I actually kind of like, come on, man, this isn’t funny!”

It’s a little funny, and he knows it.

“Where’s Lydia?” Allison asks, pulling her hair back into a bun.

When he’d left her in the hotel room, she’d said that she’d be getting breakfast soon. “Probably at the breakfast buffet.” It’s a little past ten, there’s probably not that much selection left. “I hope she saves me a poached egg.”

-x-

At breakfast with Allison and Scott, Lydia and Stiles make a plan. First, they need to compile evidence. Neither Stiles nor Lydia could find a wedding certificate in their hotel room, but they’re still wearing rings. So, with heavy hearts, everyone takes out their phones and prepares to scroll through their cameras.

“I want you to know, no matter what we see, I probably wouldn’t have done it sober,” Stiles says seriously before opening his camera app and flicking to see the pictures taken most recently.

Sitting at the table and turning so that everyone can see, he opens up the first shot of the night. It’s something they all remember, the pack huddled together around their dinner table. Next, a short video of Malia tossing cocktail shrimp to Isaac, who catches it in his mouth victoriously. Next, the dessert that Stiles and Lydia had shared: a mountain of chocolate mousse served with chocolate covered strawberries atop chocolate ice cream. Lydia grins wildly from behind the chocolate concoction, waving a fork in the air in excitement. Then the casino, with Scott and Stiles taking selfie after selfie with the slot machines and their occasional winnings.

As the time intervals between the images shortens, the less Stiles can remember of each shot. There’s a creeper picture of Malia leaning alluringly toward an unsuspecting waiter, and then one of her waving a cocktail at Scott menacingly. Then a selfie of Stiles and Lydia, matching cheesy grins to go with the martinis in their hands. Allison at the card table, Isaac leaning over her shoulder and pointing at one of the players across from her.

Then, they seem to leave the casino in favor of a club, because the lighting gets worse and they seem to get much more drunk. At least, the photos become blurrier. Still, there they’re all able to make out the picture of Cora dragging Isaac in by the front of his shirt for a kiss.

“Oh my God, why is that not a thing?” Scott demands, setting down his fruit cup to point demandingly at the screen. “Someone tell me, right now, why that isn’t a thing! They’re perfect for each other! They're both sarcastic assholes! They're my pack, I can say that. I'm the alpha.”

Lydia lowers her sunglasses and gives him a blank stare. “They are a thing,” she says finally, before looking over to Stiles with her eyebrows drawn together. “They’ve been a thing for the last four months.” And then she glances at Allison helplessly, pursing her lips while she puts her sunglasses back on and reaches for a mimosa.

Pausing, Scott also looks to Stiles and then Allison. “No one told me? Come on, guys, four months and no one told me? They’re my pack,” he says, clearly believing that this is reason enough to be told.

“They’re also allowed to what little private lives they have,” Allison says gently, curling her fingers around his wrist.

Stiles rolls his eyes, wondering how Scott had to be explicitly told. Isaac and Cora had basically been sitting on each other’s laps during pack meetings for the last six months or so, he was surprised they’d taken so long to get together in the first place. That sarcasm they possessed when combined is practically lethal, though, so he tries to not bring up personal things around them. Mostly in fear of how they’d bare their teeth.

“Can we go back to the fact that,” he starts, glancing around to make sure no one from the pack is anywhere near the dining area, and then lowering his voice to finish, “we woke up married? Because I think that’s a bigger deal.”

Fingers pressed to her temples, Lydia nods tiredly. “More important, on the grand scheme of things.”

Since Stiles’s camera roll stops there, Scott pulls out his phone. Skipping all of the dinner and casino pictures, he moves into club territory and then slows down. A selfie of him and Allison with their drinks, his peach bellini and her draft beer on display (“Because fuck gender roles, and fuck your societal conceptions, Stiles!”). Next, a grainy shot of his foot that must have been taken by accident. Next, Malia walking over to dance in the mass of strangers.

Next. Allison talking to Lydia in a booth, Stiles and Cora standing at the edge in conversation.

Next. Isaac joining them, his hand slipping onto Cora’s waist.

Next. Malia leaning between Lydia and Allison, a smirk on her lips and a drink in her hand.

Next. Lydia grabbing Stiles’s hand, moving him aside.

Next. Lydia, out of the booth, on her knees, both of her hands clasped together in front of Stiles.

Next. 

“Wait,” Lydia snaps before that image even comes into focus, tossing her sunglasses completely aside. She winces at the sudden intake of light before reaching across and snatching the phone up. Flipping the photo back without even bothering to glance at the new one, she widens her eyes to glare at the photo in question. “I,” she begins, turning purposefully toward Stiles. Then she repeats herself, clearly lost for words. “I.”

Swallowing, Stiles looks at the photo and then at Scott, panicked. Then he looks to Lydia at last. “You,” he whispers finally, unsure of how to respond. “You proposed to me,” he then says, voice shaking.

And then she nods, lost for words. Because what can she say to that? The evidence is right in front of her, clearly discernible even though it might not be the best picture ever taken. One knee probably wasn’t doable considering the short dress she’d been wearing, but her intention is obvious all the same.

Averting her eyes from the couple, Allison picks up her phone and flips through photographs quickly. Past the dinner and casino, past the club, trying to figure out where they went afterwards. There are some shots of the pack piled into a taxi, the cab driver glaring ruefully in the rearview mirror. Isaac seems to take the phone at some point, selfie-ing with Cora, Malia, and Scott repeatedly. Then there’s a struggle for the phone, Scott liberating it finally and passing it back to her, if the picture of him kissing her cheek is any indication.

Finally, a photo of Lydia and someone who must be Stiles, if the way that he’s draped over her is anything to go by. They’ve both changed since the club, Lydia in a pale blue gown that looks like something out of a high fantasy novel, and Stiles in a black shirt with a deep V-neck and a sort of mask that’s tilted over his face. They’re leaning against a sign and smiling brilliantly, curled into each other as though it’s only natural.

“Uh, I think I found something,” Allison says, zooming in on the sign. The image is fairly grainy, but the font is large, and she can make out some of the words despite her shoddy cameramanship.

Lydia whips around instantly, and Stiles follows in the next moment, his gaze tearing away from his girlfriend slowly. “What do you have?” Lydia inquires, reaching over and taking it from Allison’s hand.

As she inspects it, pulling it back over the table and positioning it so that Stiles can see it, too, he starts to laugh and she narrows her eyes. “No, oh no,” she begins, pointing at the photograph as though to delete both it and the event it was taken it. “We didn’t.” She means it. They didn’t, they absolutely didn’t.

“We did,” Stiles says, triumphant as he closes his eyes and laughs in short gasps.

“Did what?” Scott asks, trying to lean over to see. Lydia yanks the phone back, though, and pinches Stiles’s arm when he starts to respond.

“Nothing,” she hisses, her face turning as red as her hair.

Settling down, Stiles puts his phone back into his pocket and freezes. He pulls out a card slowly, inspecting it before declaring, “A clue!” With that, he reads the information carefully and ignores as Lydia attempts to reach past him for it. “Um, babe, I think I know where we need to go next.”

Lydia takes the card after locking Allison’s phone, drawing her eyebrows together as the information clicks. “If we leave now, we’ll be able to solve this. And we need to solve this, preferably today. Preferably now.” With that, she tucks the card into her purse and grabs Stiles’s hand. Turning to Scott and Allison, she says, “Don’t tell the pack where we’re going.”

“Where are you going?” Scott asks.

When Stiles opens his mouth, Lydia slams her hand over it. “We can’t tell you.”

“Then how would we even be able to tell them where you were going in the first place?”

“Don’t worry about it, just don’t tell them,” Lydia snaps, still keep Stiles silent as she drags them outside.

-x-

When the cab driver drops them off, Stiles takes the moment to check the address on the card. It’s the same sign as was in the photo on Allison’s phone, so it must be the place. The business card name matches the sign as well, ‘Bill’s Commitment Fantasies’ reading in bold gold lettering.

Lydia pays the driver quickly, her mouth set into a grimace as she marches out the door. Stiles tries to follow, ending up jogging to just keep up with her. She’s walking fast, as though she won’t get what she wants if too much time passes. “Come on,” she snaps, holding her hand back for him to grab onto.

“Trying, babe,” he says, taking her hand as they walk through the door. It’s almost like being transported back in time. The floor is hardwood, with a thick rug over the center. Velvet drapery hangs over the rose window, and the pattern on the window matches the pattern on the rug. A desk sits in the corner, a straight-backed chair with velvet upholstery behind it. Two matching chairs are in front, positioned purposefully to make visitors feel welcome. On top of the desk sits a quill in an ink well, a roll of parchment, and a small bell.

Without bothering to take in the scenery, Lydia pushes a lock of hair behind her ear and storms over the desk, ringing the bell repeatedly. And loudly.

Well, Lydia may clearly be over her hangover, but that doesn’t mean Stiles is. He winces and covers the ear closest to the noise, trying to make it look like he’s only messing with his hair if Lydia looks back to see.

“Is anyone here?” she says, calling out. There’s a door behind the desk, an ornate golden knocker in place of a lock. When no one comes to the desk, she moves behind it and reaches for the knocker.

“Yes?” a man asks, stepping out from behind a bookcase that Stiles hadn’t noticed before.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” Stiles hisses in surprise, stepping back and holding out an arm to shield Lydia with. No matter how long it’s been since the last time they had to fight for their lives, he’s never going to lose the instinct to protect her. 

Lydia whirls around quickly, hand on her hip and ready to speak her mind. As soon as she’s turned fully, though, she stops almost as quickly as she started. Apparently she hadn’t planned out what she was going to say.

As they stand silently, the man glances between quickly before adopting a smile that feels too syrupy to be true. “Ah, Stiles, Lydia, wonderful to see you two again. I take it you’re here to pick up your photos for the ‘Intended’ package?” he asks, walking behind the desk and opening one of the drawers.

Too taken back by the fact that he knows their names to do much of anything, Lydia just nods and moves a little closer to Stiles, sinking into him while he puts a hand around her waist dumbly.

“I must say, for a couple as… Inebriated as you were, you took some fairly nice photos. The rest of your party, well, not so much, but the both of you are very photogenic. Something to hope to pass onto the children,” he says, making conversation as he digs through documents. Finally, he comes to a stop and puts a folder on top of the desk. “I hope you’ll find these to your liking. We do offer a reshoot, available for up to a year after the original date. And since, in your case, it was after midnight, a year from your date would be a year from today.”

Stiles looks down first, tentatively opening the folder. It’s a pile of eight by twelve photo prints, the first one with Lydia and he wearing the clothes they wore out that night, smiling at the look at the camera with glazed eyes. The next photo is much the same, only they’re looking at each other. That one is actually nice.

“Excuse me, how do you know us?” Lydia finally asks, one hand clenching on Stiles’s bicep.

The man stares blankly at her before bursting into laughter. “I’m Bill! Of ‘Bill’s Commitment Fantasies’! You two were here last night, so we put you through the wedding ceremony of your choice – by the way, you two have good eyes. Not everyone would notice that the toasting glasses are the same as the goblets from the battle of wits. I was impressed, to say the least. Very impressed.”

Stiles looks away from the photo, watching as Lydia visibly forces herself to recover from the shock. She pushes her shoulders back and lifts her chin, posture straightening out as she does so.

“I’m glad we found you, Bill, as we actually have a few questions. Just routine things, no need to worry,” she starts out, putting on the smile that wore like armor throughout high school. She even gives the frozen stare that goes with it, and it sends shivers down Stiles’s spine because he remembers what it’s like to be fixed with that look.

It seems to instill the same fear in Bill that it used to instill in the population of Beacon Hills High, because he freezes and attempts to mirror her. Chin lifted, shoulders squared, but it’s obvious that it’s an act all the same. The false confidence doesn’t come across as true for even a moment, but he’s trying all the same. “Oh? What can I help you with? Perhaps you need to go over the payment for the ceremony.”

One thing that Stiles has learned from being with Lydia for the last two years and being friends with her for years before is that she can smell fear. Her expression adopts a grin, and she looks more gentle and sweet than any woman who has hacked rogue wolves with a machete has any right to. Stiles falls a little more in love with her than he thought was possible.

“Oh, yes, about the payment. I was just wondering if we could go over the bill,” she mentions, voice positively saccharine. “There just seem to be a few inconsistencies from what I remember we went over last night.”

Nodding, Bile hurriedly collects a notebook from a separate desk drawer and flips through pages rapidly. “Yes, yes, of course. I have the information right here, Lydia and Stiles Martin, no problems here, ‘The Fantasy is Fictional but the Love is Real’,” he chatters mindlessly, nerves showing through.

Stiles positively starts when he reads of ‘Lydia and Stiles Martin’, because, well, what? ‘Stiles Martin’? How drunk was he last night? Is he still drunk? Is this an alcohol-induced dream state that’s causing him to have exceedingly lucid dreams? Did the pack actually make a Vegas trip, or has everything been a dream?

He must have slipped off for longer than expected, because the next thing that he knows Lydia is yelling. Loudly. “What the fuck do you mean this is just the charge for the ceremony? Your officiant isn’t even legally allowed to marry people? Oh my God, it literally takes five minutes online to get licensed for that, I could get that done in the time that it takes you to wipe your ass, you incompetent asshole,” she snaps, nails digging into Stiles’s skin as she continues, “If you think that I’m paying for that, you’ve got another thing coming.”

Rushing to make apologies, Bill stumbles over excuses before taking the route that he should have taken from the start. Stiles knows from experience that when Lydia gets this wound up, the best option is to stand meekly and nod when required. “We’re so sorry, we didn’t really the inconveniences that might have been associated with it.”

“Didn’t realize the inconveniences that might result from giving people ceremonies in Vegas while they’re intoxicated without actually marrying them? You didn’t think that people wouldn’t jump to conclusions?” Her voice, already loud, has risen to a decibel that was previously unknown to both her and Stiles’s ears, excluding her stints as a wailing woman.

“Of course, makes perfect sense,” he says, the words practically tripping over themselves in the rush to get out.

“I want you to know that I come from a very wealthy family, and that my lawyer will be in touch. I’m going to take this company for everything that it’s worth,” she swears, twisting around and taking Stiles with her as she goes to leave her. “Don’t think I’m stupid because I’m pretty.”

So that’s why she’s so mad, Stiles realizes. Bill must have somehow communicated that he expected her to be dumb, a common misconception that never failed to rile Lydia up. Walking alongside her as they leave, he takes a moment before breaking free of her and going back to the desk. Snatching up the folder of pictures, he says, “We’re taking this with us,” before going back to her.

Once outside, Lydia only makes it a few steps before coming to a full stop and leaning into him. “I can’t believe it. I almost had a heart attack, I still can’t believe it,” she says, starting to laugh.

He must have missed something, judging by the way that she’s smiling and giggling. “Wait, believe what?”

Astounded, she squints and says in between laughs, “They only do ceremonies! They didn’t actually marry us, can you believe it? You didn’t hear what he said about the ceremony being fictional but the love is real?”

He’s stunned. That’s the only word for it, but in a moment everything changes. The ring on his finger feels a thousand times lighter, and everything with Lydia is suddenly less strained. There’s nothing to worry about, least of all how to tell his father that he sort of went and got married in Vegas and can’t really remember any of it. But, no worries, he does have pictures!

That reminds him, the pictures. “Wait, I grabbed these, do you want to look at them?” Brandishing the folder, he opens it slowly to the last photo he’d been looking at, where he and Lydia are smiling softly at each other. “We actually look kind of cute, you know. We don’t even look drunk in this one.”

Smiling, she stands on her tiptoes to his kiss him briefly. “Let’s just go back. I’m so relieved, we must be the luckiest people alive. Or the strangest, considering the ceremony style that we chose.”

He flips rapidly through the photographs, finally coming to one that he likes. “Come on, I think we’re pretty great. A wedding ceremony straight from ‘The Princess Bride’? I mean, what’s more perfect than that?” Holding up the picture of her clad in Buttercup’s elegant baby blue gown while she leans against him, his mask still in place at this point in the night, he grins cheekily at her.

“Oh, shut up, Wesley,” she teases him, kissing him once more.

With a smile, he whispers, “As you wish.”

-x-

Walking back into the hotel, Stiles fumbles with his phone to send off a quick text to Scott. “I think everyone is leaving in a few hours, but we need to catch Scott and Allison up. Let them know that we’re not actually married and shit, you know, because I feel like Scott would like to know. Allison, too,” he tacks on, turning to the elevator.

Lydia tucks the folder of photos under her arm and nods, following him through the lobby. “I’m just so happy that we got everything sorted out. Imagine having to tell everyone, or, oh God, imagine having to tell my mother. Or your father. Or Mama McCall, oh, she’d be so sad she missed the wedding.”

“Looked like a pretty kick ass wedding, I’d say,” he says, pressing their level in quickly and grinning when the doors close before anyone else can load on after them. He’s a child, what can he say? Plus, he doesn’t really want to be around strangers while they talk about the fact that they basically got fake-married in Vegas and it did such a good job of it that even their sober selves had been fooled for a while.

The door open slowly, and the complicated pattern on the carpeting no longer looks like it’s swimming now that they’re sober. Lydia takes this as a good sign, and she flicks through her phone quickly to make sure that they’re at the right room before knocking.

Isaac swings open the door to Scott and Allison’s hotel room, his eyebrows raised and a grin that’s positively evil poised on his lips. “How are the lovebirds?” he asks, stepping aside to reveal Scott and Allison sitting on their bed with Malia, who is dealing cards onto the bedspread at a rapid speed. “You didn’t have to come see us so soon, we figured that you’d want the honeymoon to last a little longer. After all, you are newlyweds.”

Because saying ‘lovebirds’ wasn’t enough, of course Isaac has to lay it on thick. Lydia brushes past him, paying no attention at the pout he gives her. “As I’m sure that you’ve all figured out, last night Stiles and I got married.”

The bathroom door opens as she’s talking, and Cora smirks while patting her hands down with a towel. “Is that what Isaac was babbling over at lunch? Apparently he has pictures,” she says, tossing the cloth before sitting down on the desk and grinning impishly at them. “Congratulations, by the way.”

“Thanks, but they’re not in order at the moment,” Lydia says, smiling before poking Stiles in the side. “Do you want to tell them, or should I?”

“I’ll take the honors,” he answers, raising his hands in the sign for touchdown as he yells, “We’re not married!”

Malia laughs, Isaac jerks forward in confusion, Cora stares at them emotionlessly, Allison’s eye widen comically, and Scott makes a noise that sounds both joyous and sorrowful. Then Allison shamefully reaches into her wallet and pushes a ten dollar bill Scott’s way. Stiles isn’t sure he wants to know what’s happening there, but right now he’s too relieved that he’s not married to care all that much.

Waving his phone around, Isaac yells, “But I have pictures! And a video! You traded rings, the guy standing between you said the ‘mawage’ lines and everything! That means you’re married,” he insists, flipping through photos to show them the proof.

Lydia has scene variants of those photos from the folder in her hand, and she’s sure that hers are better quality, so she doesn’t bother to pay attention to the screen he attempts to shove in her face. “We checked the place out, and that officiant wasn’t licensed to legally wed anyone. So we’re not actually married.”

Solemnly, Stiles informs everyone, "Mawage. Mawage is wot bwings us togeder today. Mawage, that bwessed awangment, that dweam wifin a dweam," he drawls.

“Dodged a bullet, am I right, Stiles?” Cora jokes, eyes on Scott’s cards as she signs things to Malia.

The laugh is halfway out of Stiles’s mouth before he notices the glare that Lydia aims his way and tries to cut it off prematurely, ending up choking instead. “No bullet to dodge,” he tries, crossing his fingers behind his back.

Cora grins viciously at him as Lydia huffs and trains her eyes away. Chemo signals are a bitch, he realizes belatedly.

-x-

As they pack up to leave Vegas, Lydia searches through their hotel room in hopes of finding the high heels she’d worn out that first night. “Can you check under the bed?” she asks, pulling her head out of the dresser to make sure that Stiles is able to hear her.

“Got it,” Stiles calls, rolling over on the bed and scooting over to the edge before leaning over and lifting the bed skirt. “Plenty of dust bunnies, no strappy red heels that make your ass look great, sorry.”

“I’m going to check the bathroom, keep looking.” Tossing her hair of her shoulder, she throws a shirt into her open luggage and walks down the short hallway to see if her shoes somehow ended up under one of the bathrobes.

He holds his hand in the thumbs up motion, craning his neck to make sure the area under the couches was empty. “I am looking for the red heels, right?” He can never keep track of Lydia’s shoes, especially since it seems like she buys a new pair every week. Not to mention that she always changes three times before they go out.

Voice echoing, Lydia says, “Yeah, red. Probably. Honestly, if you find a shoe just put it in one of the bags, because it’s mine. Unless you have another girlfriend you want to tell me about.”

“Yeah, you might know her. She’s a redhead, and a real witch.”

“I’m not a witch, I’m your wife!” she shouts, laughter following the reference. “Oh yeah, you left your watch by the sink.” 

Damn it, he always does that. “Thanks, babe!” 

As he lifts the bed skirt a little higher just to make sure he’s checked everywhere, a pair of Lydia’s flats appear. Not just flats as in a pair of shoes resting under the bed, but flats as in the shoes that she’s wearing attached to her feet, one of which is tapping out a staccato rhythm impatiently. Flipping over, he starts to ask what she needs before stopping in his tracks.

In one of her hands, she holds a silver band. The silver band that he woke up with yesterday morning, the one that he started out thinking of as impossibly heavy and now seems so small. Pinching it between her thumb and forefinger, an unreadable expression on her face, she says in a small voice, “This was on the counter.”

He took it off to shower last night and must not have seen it to put it back on. No, that’s a lie. He saw it after getting out of the shower and didn’t know whether to put it back on or not, so he’d left it there with intentions to figure it out later. “I took it off to shower, I must not have seen it after,” he says clumsily, feeling guilty for the lie.

Even though she can’t listen to heartbeat from across the room, Lydia catches him anyway. “I don’t believe that,” she insists, swallowing as she looks away from his face.

“I didn’t know what to do about it,” Stiles confesses, sitting up and reaching out to touch her other hand.

Her face relaxes, but only for a moment. “What do you want to do about it?” she asks, finally, settling one hand in his. She sounds about as unsure as he feels about everything.

Putting it on had seemed strange, making a declaration that neither of them remember. Leaving it had felt strange, too, because then it seemed as though he was saying that it didn’t matter. The idea had come to him to put it in his pocket, but then he’d been worried about forgetting about it and losing it in the wash or something. He loves Lydia, has for years, has always loved her, and he knows that he’s going to love her for the rest of his life.

But a fictional commitment ceremony while intoxicated hadn’t been what he’d had in mind when he thought about them spending their lives together. He says as much. “When we get married, I want to remember from the proposal to the ceremony. I want to watch you come down the aisle in a white dress, the whole shebang. Three-tiered cake, drunken call from your bachelorette party, throwing the bouquet and all.”

Eyes catching on his, she seems to gain strength from his statement. “When?” she asks carefully.

He doesn’t want to put too much stock into his own opinion, but Lydia sounds almost hopeful, as though the prospect cheers her. Squeezing her hand gently, he says, “Yeah. When. I want to spend my life with you.”

With a deep breath, Lydia tightens her hold on his hand and glances on the ground quickly. Then, she looks back at him and kneels slowly, a grin growing all the while.

Stiles is having trouble breathing, reality crashing into him like a train. She’s kneeling in front of him, they’ve been talking about marriage, this is happening, this is really happening and not some figment of his imagination.

“I love you, Stiles Stilinski. Will you marry me?” she asks, holding the ring out to him.

Heart pounding, it takes him a moment. Because while he realized this was happening, he forgot that he’d need to respond. “Yes, shit, I forgot I needed to say yes, or do anything, or, or. Yes, God, yes, of course I’ll marry you, Lyds,” he says, pulling her forward and into a kiss.

She wraps her arms around his neck and clings to him, climbing onto the bed and sighing as his hands resettle around her waist. “Really?” Her voice sounds small and unsure, despite the fact that he just gave her an enthusiastic response. “You mean it?”

“God, yes, of course I mean it. How could I not mean it?” he murmurs, moving his lips to pepper small kisses across her cheeks and nose. “I can’t believe you just asked me to marry you, holy shit. You’re perfect. Beyond perfect, you’re absolutely brilliant, and gorgeous, and kind, and intelligent, fuck, I’m running out of adjectives because brilliant and intelligent are really close, but you’re everything. I mean it, I swear to God, I love you so much.” He says the vow seriously, looking into her eyes as he makes it a promise.

Biting her lip, she grins at him and pulls herself closer, settling in his lap before going in for another kiss. “I love you, too. So much.” More than he can know, but even as she thinks it, she knows that she’s wrong. They’ve fought rogue alphas and demons and an evil tree together, of course he knows how much she loves him. And he loves her just as much.

**Author's Note:**

> I am helpless-in-sleep on tumblr, come chat with me for a while about Stydia feels or anything else you feel up to talking about.


End file.
